Race Williams is at it again, practicing his brand of two-gun justice on the streets of New York. This one is a "novel" only in pulp magazine terms, but at 39 pages, it's still a good chunk of reading. As usual, if you're one of the hundred-odd Race fans already on my list, you'll find scans of this story in your email box. If not, shoot me a message at email@example.com and I'll send you this adventure, the previous dozen I've scanned, and those yet to come. For a look at what has gone before, click HERE.
Here's a preview:
After the little incident above, Race's friend police Sergeant O'Rourke asks him what happened.
"All right," I told him. "Someone opened up on me with a machine gun from a black sedan. I was nervous and frightened and fired back."
"You must have been pretty nervous," he smiled. "Tony Fernerro opened his mouth in time to swallow the bullet."
"You didn't expect him to catch it in his teeth, did you? Just one killer less. What's the beef?"
The man who held the gun said:
"To the car, buddy, and inside. Understand?"
I was surprised. Such a stunt hadn't been played on me in years. I don't frighten easily. I don't go for one-way rides. At least I never have yet. I said:
"Do you know who I am?"
"It don't matter. A gent wants to see you. If you want to stay alive and see him--hop!"
"And if I don't hop?"
"It's curtains here on the sidewalk. I have the getaway car there. I'm on the kill!"
"So am I," I told him, and before he could even close his finger on the trigger, I shot him twice! He doubled up like a jackknife and lay down on the sidewalk. The car moved from the curb. I stepped back into the building, made my way through the teeming masses who were shouting hysterically and came out on the other street. Was he dead? I don't know; I only shot him. I'm not a doctor or an undertaker.
I suppose I should have been a superman. I suppose I should have shot the knife out of his hand. I had seen his ear, and I had seen the whiteness below it, and I had covered it to shout out my warning. But not now. There was no warning; no time to speak; no time for anything but death!
My finger closed upon the trigger. His knife shot down, but not at the girl--not even at the bed. The distance was hardly more than fifteen feet. I use a heavy-caliber gun. Just the whiteness below his ear that suddenly became a dull purple. Then the would-be killer spun like a top, crashed against the wall on the opposite side of the bed from me and smacked the floor on his face.
Was he dead? Don't make me laugh. I'll bet in all his career Dr. Steel hadn't seen a deader corpse.
Now here's a word from Race's sponsor:
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